


Skimming and Sinking

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Childhood, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 18:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8856253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: John's sexual history, leading him to Sherlock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to delicious spiral and addictedstilltheaddict for their beta help.
> 
> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All dates are based upon John's birth year as 1971.

_1978_

“Lookit, Johnny!”

John squinted into the bright sunshine glinting off the water, felt the sea winds ruffle his hair. He tilted his face up to the August sun. He didn’t answer Harry - wouldn’t do to answer right away.

“Johnny! Johnny! Lookit!”

John sighed. “What?”

“Lookit!”

He turned his head the slightest degree towards his sister, just in time to see her hurl a stone the size of a brick. It plonked into the water with a loud splash, and Harry crowed in celebration.

“You’re ridiculous, Harry.”

“Am not. S’fun.”

John rolled his eyes at her, then began to scan the beach for the right kind of rock. “You need a flat one.” He held one up. “Like this, see?”

But Harry was already buzzing off towards the larger rocks just past the tide line. John shook his head, carefully aimed and threw.

“Like that! See? See how it skips?”

“Lookit this one, Johnny!”

John found one, two, three rocks. The third one was perfect; he saved it for last. He squinted again into the horizon, cocked his arm, and threw the rock in a pleasing arc.

“Three times, didja see?”

“That’s boring.”

“Is not. Better than what you’re doing. You’re just throwing. This takes _skill_.”

“Boring. Lookit this one! It’s humongous!”

John shot a glance over his shoulder at his sister. She was tottering back towards the water, with a rock the size of her head held in front of her.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself, Harry. You’re too little to carry that.”

“Am not. This is gonna make a big splash. Gonna splash _you_.”

John angled his arm, kept his wrist loose, hand steady, and flicked. _Four_ skips. Not bad.

“Now watch, Harry. Look. See how I hold it, sideways like that?”

“Johnny-”

Whatever Harry was about to say was cut off by a crack and a wail as Harry dropped the huge rock on her foot. John dropped the perfect rock as he rushed to help her.

Later, John’s father backhanded him across the ear for not taking better care of his sister.

**

_1987_

John was in a dark corner of Artie Playfair’s sitting room, it was dark, Stephen Duffy was playing on the radio, and he was snogging Marcie Tennant and it was _brilliant_.

Marcie had dark hair with enough curl to feel fantastic between his fingers, her lips were soft, John had one arm around her waist and the other on her knee just below her skirt. He’d tried sliding it up higher a while back, and she’d slapped his hand but said they could keep kissing as long as he didn’t try that again. Fine  – John was more than content to explore her mouth and let her hair run between his fingers.

“Oi, Johnny! Lover boy!”

John gave the bowfinger to the room in general without breaking the kiss.

“Unlock your lips, Johnny! There’s _another_ girl on the phone for you!”

John sighed, letting his head fall to his chest. Even with his eyes shut, he could _feel_ Marcie glaring at him.

“Lemme guess – Harry?” he called.

The answering raucous laughter sounded more or less affirmative. John got to his feet and met Marcie’s angry scowl.

“It’s my sister,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

He went into the kitchen where the phone dangled crazily by its cord. He stretched the cord the full length until he could stand in the corner, then folded his body around the receiver. “Harry?”

All he heard at first was a sniffle, then, “Johnny?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought Artie forgot I was on the phone. I’ve been waiting and waiting.”

“Well, he found me. What’s wrong?”

A shuddering breath.

“Is it Mum?”

“Yeah.”

John sighed, feeling older than he should. “Okay. Be there in about ten.”

He hung up, grabbed his jacket off the coat rack and slipped out the door. The cool spring wind blew against his face as he biked home along the darkened streets. As he pedalled he sang softly to himself.

“In my young life I have received callers as though they were Christmas Eve,” he sang tunelessly.

Harry met him at the door, pale and red eyed.

“S’alright Harry,” he said. “Go to bed.”

She nodded and went down the hall, but then just hovered by her bedroom door.

John turned into the lounge, into the stink of old milk, bacon, and booze. The Four Seasons were playing on the radio. Mum was half slumped on the sofa cushions, her fingertips brushing the gin bottle, thick tears carving lines on her cheeks.

“Hey Mum. Time for bed.”

Her head lolled upwards. “Johnny?”

“Yeah, Mum. Come on now.”

Mum’s hand re-established contact on the neck of the bottle, raised it to her lips for another swallow. She gestured towards the radio with the bottle, the oily liquid sloshing around. “Your Dad and I used to dance to that song, did you know that?”

“I know, Mum.” He gently pulled the bottle from her hand, tucked it out of reach behind the sofa. “Up you get.”

A diet of drink and junk food had made her heavy over the last two years, and John staggered a bit under her weight. Fortunately she was complacent and stumbled obediently down the hallway with him. Harry slunk like a ghost into her room just before John could see her.

“Lie down now, Mum, you’ll feel loads better, okay?”

Mum sighed and burrowed her face into the pillow. John noted with faint disgust the traces of old lipstick on the pillow slip. He shifted her onto her side and placed the rubbish bin beside the bed, in case she vomited as she had done before. “All right now?”

He felt her hand groping up, feeling out for his face. She cupped it in her rough palm. “Aw, Johnny, you look more like your Dad every day. You got his eyes, and his chin there, have I told you?”

John took a deep breath, willed his anger down. “Yeah, Mum. Hundreds of times.”

Her hand dropped back down to cover her eyes. “A good man, your Dad,” she murmured.

“Yeah?” John said, his voice suddenly tight and snappish. “Why’d he leave then?”

“Don’t you dare say a word against your father!” she barked, abruptly awake with red eyes glaring at him.

“All right, Mum. All right. Sorry.”

The moment of rage passed as quickly as it had bubbled up. “Love of my life,” she sighed, and then her eyes drooped shut.

John stood there for a moment, his hands clenching, staring down at his mother as she began to snore. Then he turned and left the room, closing the door softly after him. The clock in the hall struck one as he filled the sink and began the washing up.

He was halfway through the dishes when he remembered Marcie.

“Shit,” he said.

**

_1992_

John pulled Anna’s knee up and tucked it under his arm. She moaned, her fingers scrabbling across his shoulders. He felt her fluttering around him and he began thrusting hard.

“Yes – yes – yes,” she panted.

He felt his orgasm rising up inside him. Pushed her leg back further. “Come on, baby,” he grunted, and he was coming, flooding the condom. His hips stuttered through the aftershocks until he collapsed over her.

“God damn, John Watson,” she said. Her chest and neck were flushed pink and she grinned up at him.

He slipped to her side and kissed her, long and deep. “Oh no,” he murmured into her mouth. “You’re not done yet.”

His fingers found her still wet and open and soft. She gasped. He rubbed at her lips and clit, softly at first until her hips tilted up, then faster and faster until she cried out, hoarse and wild.

“God _damn_ , John Watson,” she panted.

“All right?” he said, kissing her neck softly.

“Oh hell yeah.”

“That’s my girl.” He gathered her into his chest.

When her breath was even and deep, just on the border of soft snoring, he carefully untangled himself from her body. The condom was still on his cock; he pulled it off and tied the end. He wrapped it in a tissue and threw it out.

He dressed silently and slipped out the door. His bike was still against the fence, not stolen for a mercy. He pedalled back to his rooms as a soft rain began to fall.

It was after one when he let himself in. He turned on the desk lamp, sat, and pulled his anatomy textbook towards him.

“External oblique. Internal oblique. Transverse abdominal,” he whispered under his breath. “Rectus abdominis. Linea alba.”

**

_2002_

He didn’t recognize the music playing in the bar, but it was loud and had a solid beat. He could distantly hear the boys cheering him on but, ignoring them, he approached the blonde woman at the table in the corner.

“Hello,” he said.

She looked up at him, smiling shyly. “Hallo.”

He extended his hand. “John.”

“Usch,” she replied and shook his hand.

He pointed backwards towards the bar, a questioning look on his face. Her smile widened with a tiny smirk as she tapped her glass, three quarters full.

“Nothing for it,” he muttered to himself as he drew a small piece of paper from his uniform’s pocket. Usch’s brows knitted in confusion. He peered at the paper in the gloom of the bar.

“Wollen... Sie... dansen?” he said.

She laughed, but not cruelly. “Nicht wollen. Vollen. V,” she said, emphasizing the sound.

“Vollen?”

“Ja, sehr gut.”

“Okay. Vollen Sie dansen?”

She grinned, and he felt that tiny spark of victory. “Ja. Toll.”

“Toll,” he replied, and extended his hand to her, palm up.

He led her to the dance floor, into the near solid mass of people, where the music was loud. Language wasn’t needed here – or least not spoken language. He slid one hand around her waist and began to dance.

Bill Murray bumped into him, dancing with a brunette girl. “Three Continents Watson,” he shouted into his ear.

“Shut it,” he said without taking his eyes off Usch. God, she could dance and her hair was like straw.

**

_2009_

The pain was huge and roaring, like a live animal raging through his body. He tried to raise his hand up to his shoulder, knowing he should cover it, calm the animal, but his limbs would not obey. He could feel the rush and mix of chemicals in his body, alerted to and fighting the foreign presence in his flesh.

 _I’ve been shot_ , he thought dully.

Then Bill was there, dragging him, the movement making his head spin. “Hey Doc, careful there, come on now, come on,” he was saying but someone was screaming loudly and John couldn’t hear him.

Then they were behind a wall and Bill was cutting his shirt open. “Let’s have a look at the trouble you’ve gotten into.” Even though Bill seemed to be terribly far away, John could see his eyes widen and his face pale. “Nice one, there, Doc.”

“How…bad…”

“Oh, not too awful, but we’ll just get you over to the field hospital, all right?” Bill raised his head and in a very different voice, a loud and carrying shout, “Get that fucking stretcher over here STAT! and pull blood, fast.”

Then Bill turned back with a smile, but the sun seemed to be setting and it was getting dark already.

“Now hang on, Doc, stay with me, all right? Listen to me, you’re going to be all right, okay? MOVE YOUR GODDAMN ARSES NOW! Come on now, John, keep listening to my voice. Okay? Just hold on. Think about, think about that girl in Laos, right?  What was her name? Keona or something? Just remember her, and hang on, right? Think about all the girls left in the world you haven’t fucked, and HANG. ON.”

John tried to think about the girl in Laos, but he couldn’t remember her name, or even her face, really.  Everything he’d ever done was fading, like a watercolour, rinsed away by the rush of blood from his shoulder. Then he remembered that Bill never shouted unless the situation was very serious.

 _I can’t be dying. This can’t possibly be it_ , he thought. _This can’t be all there is._

“Please God, let me live,” he muttered into the gathering darkness.

**

“All right, Captain, let’s give this a try.”

John turned his head on the pillow to see Diane. Her smile was kind but firm, and she held out a grey metal cane.

“Come on, Captain. For me?”

Diane was Canadian and an excellent nurse. She had bathed him and held him down when the fever from the infection had made him shake and cry out, and she had done it all without pity or being patronizing. John could see she was also pretty, though that observation didn’t matter to him any more.

If he turned away from her completely he would turn onto his wounded shoulder and it would hurt like a scream. Instead he just turned his face away from her, to the wall.

**

Squeakthump, squeakthump, squeakthump.

The cane had a squeak, which didn’t help. He hated the cane, but he hated the squeak that happened every time he put his weight on it even more. It felt like an aural neon sign, broadcasting to everyone that John was USELESS. A CRIPPLE.

The physiotherapist told him to walk, so he was walking. It was after two in the morning and he was walking, because he couldn’t sleep. The nurses had offered him sleeping pills, but the thought of being trapped in a nightmare and unable to wake was unthinkable. So. He was walking through the army hospital, thumping and squeaking through the empty hallways.

He had established a route that allowed him to loop through the wing of the hospital while avoiding the nurses’ station, avoiding their pitying looks and exhortations that he should be in bed. No one was in sight, and that suited him well.

Squeakthump, squeakthump.

He felt a cramp inching up his leg and he paused, rubbing the muscle hard, forcing the cramp away. When the pain passed, he looked up and realized he was just outside someone’s room. The door was propped open, and the lights were dimmed. John could  see the outline of a figure in the bed, so thin that the blanket draped over him without a wrinkle. Another man sat at the bedside, holding the patient’s hand between his own. The low light etched the lines of fear and grief and worry into the sitting man’s face. John saw the man gently pull the thin, wasted hand to his lips.

John suddenly realized that he was witnessing a terribly private moment. He limped away, his face flushed and his lips pressed together.

Squeakthump, squeakthump, squeakthump.

**

_2010_

John let himself into Harry’s flat, fumbling the key and his cane as he closed the door.

“Johnny? That you?” Harry’s voice was flat, without colour.

“Yeah.” He stumped into the sitting room. The light from the telly bounced off of Harry’s wan face, the only light in the room, the curtains shut against the gloom of the day. She sat on the sofa, in her housecoat at two o’clock in the afternoon.

She looked up at him, with grief cracking the corners of her eyes. “She left me, Johnny.”

“I know,” John said. He sat on the sofa, angled towards her. “She called me.”

Harry pressed her lips together, tilted her head to the side. “Oh really?” she said, a sudden hard edge to her voice.

“Yeah, of course. She’s pissed at you but she still worries. You told her you’d stop.”

“Why is Clara calling _you_? What’s going on?”

“She’s just – are you serious?”

“Are you and she…”

John barked a laugh to keep his anger from overflowing. “You’re jealous? Seriously?”

“Well?”

“Jesus Christ, Harry, just think this through for a moment. You’re both _gay_.”

“She might be bi. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her after all, I guess.” Harry slumped back into the sofa cushions, her anger dissipating as quickly as it had come.

John clenched his fists, then forced them to relax. “No, Harry, there is nothing between Clara and me. The problem is between Clara and _you_. You promised her you’d stop drinking, and she said she found you hungover this morning.”

“There was a work thing last night, I had to go.”

“Sure, but you don’t have to drink. For God’s sake Harry. You need to get some help.”

She leaned forward, earnest and pleading and slurring. “I can do it, Johnny, I really can. Will you tell her that? If she would just come back, I can do it. I need her to do it.”

“She’s heard it too many times, Harry. As have I.”

Harry threw herself back against the cushions of the sofa. “Fuck off.”

“Harry, don’t you remember what it was like? With Mum? She drank herself to death. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Harry smiled to herself, soft and wistful. “You remember when Mum and Da used to dance in the kitchen? Anytime that song came on? What was that song?”

John’s jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. “I don’t remember.”

“Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You. That was it.”

Harry’s eyes were sliding closed, and her hand slowly released the telly remote. She was still smiling.

“You haven’t slept at all, have you?”

“Mmm.”

John pulled the afghan down from the back of the sofa, laid it over her as she slumped. “Go to sleep, Harry.”

“Love her so much, Johnny. From the moment we met. Was like a, a, a wave. Hit me. Can’t do without her.”

“Go to sleep. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Like I’m drowning without her. Need her.” Harry turned on her side, rubbed her face into the cushion. “Love her.”

John sat and watched her for a few minutes, until he heard her soft snoring. Then he stood, limped into the kitchen and began the washing up.


	2. Chapter 2

The whole day John had felt off balance. Since the moment he’d walked into the lab and had his strange introduction to the strange man named Sherlock Holmes, he’d felt off kilter. Not in a bad way, just… different. Like his life was changing in a way he’d never anticipated.

And now he was breathless from running and laughing, and Sherlock was chuckling in a deep baritone. When Angelo knocked at the door, as if on Sherlock’s cue, and handed John his forgotten cane, John’s jaw dropped. He looked back at Sherlock, who was smiling-smirking at him, and he felt a flicker of something.

 _This is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me_ , he thought.

**

That strange flicker happened again and again after he moved in, and as he became more involved with Sherlock’s work:

“Take my card.” Flick.

“I am on fire!” Flick.

Sherlock solving a case within four minutes of walking in the room. Flick.

Giggling in Buckingham Palace with Sherlock wearing nothing but a sheet. Flick.

“I haven’t got friends. I’ve just got one.” Flick.

He wondered at the odd and unique feeling, until he realized that it was because he’d never known anyone like Sherlock Holmes, never had a friend like this. He was the most extraordinary, infuriating, fascinating friend he’d ever had.

Then one overcast day he found himself running towards Sherlock’s body on the pavement. As soon as his hand was pulled off of Sherlock’s wrist, the wrist with no pulse and no life left in it, a gray cloud surrounded him. He lived in the cloud, unable to hear or see anything or anyone else, for two years.

**

He didn’t want the job at the clinic, but he couldn’t live off of air. He could put a friendly smile on for the patients, listen to their complaints and give them pills, but when his shift was over he would simply nod at the staff and go back to his drab bedsit.

One night he was putting on his coat, and the new nurse called to him from the desk. “Doctor Watson? Some of us are going for drinks at the new pub around the corner, care to join us?”

“Can’t tonight,” he said with a thin smile. “Got to get home. Thanks, though.”

“Right you are,” she said brightly. “Next time, then.”

“Next time,” he agreed, and knew he was lying.

A week later, she stuck her head into his office. “D’you like curry, Doctor? I just ordered some in, the servings are huge. Want to share?”

He held up his sandwich. “Brought mine today, thanks.”

“No worries. More for us good guys.”

He turned back to his ham sandwich, which was dry because he’d forgotten to buy mustard two weeks running. He’d also forgotten to buy new razor blades. Maybe he’d try a beard, or a mustache.

Two days later he was writing up his notes for his last patient, when a Styrofoam cup full of water was placed in front of him. His brow furrowed as he looked at it, then looked up at the new nurse.

“Yes?” he said.

She nodded towards the cup. “Water.”

He blinked. “Um, thanks.”

“It’s warm.”

“What?”

“It’s rather lukewarm. I was thinking about putting some dirt or grass into it, but thought that might be a bit over the top.”

He leaned back in his chair, a bit confused and a lot annoyed. “What are you playing at, Ms-” he glanced at her name badge, “Morstan?”

“Mary. Well, I asked you for drinks, and you said no, and then lunch, and you said no. I was thinking that coffee was the next step down, but thought I’d just skip that and go for manky old water. Just to see if you’d turn that down too.”

Her eyes met his, wide and blue and direct, but he saw the crinkle of mischief at their edges. Despite himself, he snorted a laugh.

“Brilliant, you do smile then, I wasn’t sure,” she said, and grinned. John found himself grinning back.

**

They went for coffee, then lunch, then dinner. She made him laugh with her brash approach to life, her ability to poke holes into pompousness. He felt the gray cloud begin to lift. When she smiled, he found it easier to breathe then he had been able to since Sherlock died.

After their fifth dinner date, they went to her flat, and made love, slow and gentle. They had sex again in the morning, with the sun slanting across her bed and glinting in her hair as she shuddered and cried out beneath him.

 _This is love_ , he thought to himself. _This is it. Finally, this is love._

 _Time to move on_ , he thought to himself.

**

He had his grandmother’s ring cleaned and made a reservation at the Landmark. He was trying to put the words together to ask her, distracted by the ring of her laugh, and looked up at the irritating waiter and saw Sherlock Holmes.

Rage clouded his vision, and his muscles twitched.  He grabbed Sherlock’s lapels and pushed him to the floor, reached for his throat.

**

He felt surrounded by his anger, swaddled in it. It framed everything he did, from shaving his mustache off, to every patient he saw at the clinic the next day. The anger carried him to Baker Street, until he felt the pinprick in his neck.

It dissipated somewhat after the bonfire, but it was just under the surface, bubbling and confusing. He went to see Sherlock – he wasn’t quite sure why – and couldn’t look him in the eye.

It wasn’t until they were in the subway car, and Sherlock was wiping his tears of laughter from his face, that the anger finally drained away.

“Oh please. Killing me – that’s so two years ago,” Sherlock said, and grinned.

Flick.

 _Oh_ , John thought. _My friend is back. My best friend._

And he smiled back despite himself.

**

For a time John thought he had the best of both worlds. He was in love with Mary, and he had his best friend back from the dead. He had his work at the clinic, and he went with Sherlock on cases whenever he could. He could spend the day with his friend dodging bullets and blow darts, and go home and make love with his fiancée. She didn’t resent his time on cases or with Sherlock, and Sherlock actually seemed to like Mary.

The wedding day was… well, only John Watson could have a murder mystery at his wedding, for the one and only Sherlock Holmes to solve, and spectacularly to boot.

He thought Sherlock was joking, a sick and terrible joke, when he deduced Mary’s pregnancy; then he looked at Mary and saw it was true.

 _We’re having a baby,_ he thought. _I’m going to be a father._

But even as he said it, it didn’t feel like it was actually happening to him. It felt like a story someone was telling about some other bloke. Not him. The information just floated on the surface of his mind.

He laughed and made a joke about his dancing, about dancing with Sherlock, and took Mary into his arms. He looked up at Sherlock and saw him gazing at him, Sherlock suddenly solemn and perhaps a little sad.

 _Flick_.

John danced away.

**

Through the honeymoon, he still couldn’t absorb the information. He told himself every day, every time he looked at Mary, every time he looked in a mirror – _I’m going to be a father_. Even when Mary suffered from morning sickness and spent each dawn in the toilet vomiting, the reality of it never sank in. The only thing that seemed real was that inscrutable look on Sherlock’s face at the wedding.

One day they toured a church for the patron saint of the island, Saint Lucy. She was the patron saint for the blind when her eyes were removed by the man she had refused to marry.

John stared at the picture – Lucy holding a plate with her eyes blinking at the observer, with her own eyes in her own head gazing sadly out as well. He found himself thinking that Sherlock would rate a woman having her eyes forcibly removed as a seven, at least. He found himself smiling.

“God, that painting’s making me ill,” Mary said, and turned away, pulling at his hand.

When they returned from the honeymoon, John texted Sherlock to tell him about Saint Lucy. Sherlock never replied.

**

From the moment John saw Sherlock in the crack house, he was caught up in a tsunami of conflicting emotions, thoughts, and images. The horrible tide carried him on through the weeks that followed. His brain was constantly swirling in a mix of drugs – Sherlock – Janine – kissing – piss – shot – Sherlock - vena cava – asystole – Mary – gun – wet jobs – flick – brains – Sherlock - jail – handshake.

“To the very best of times, John.”

The situation got worse with every passing hour. John felt himself sinking in the confusion and rage. It reminded him of when he got caught near an IED in Afghanistan and had temporary hearing loss. The world was reduced to a muffled whine, and he wrapped himself in it, staying behind a wall of anger and grief.

His life, his ideal life of wife and child and best friend, was falling apart. Had fallen apart. He couldn’t fix it.


	3. Chapter 3

John stood in the middle of the sitting room. The silence of the flat surrounded him and it ached. His phone was lying in his hand and he was staring at it. He wasn’t sure how long he had been staring at it.

He dialled and lifted it slowly to his ear.

Sherlock picked up at the first ring. “John?”

John could do nothing for a moment but breathe. His head was buzzing. He found himself staring at the door.

“John, what’s happened?”

“I-” His voice came out as pure gravel. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Sherlock.”

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock’s tone hardened, worry in the cracks of his voice.

John took a moment to try to assemble the words, to place the syllables in the right order.

“Mary’s gone.” He took a deep breath, found the rest of the words. “The baby’s not mine.”

Sherlock was silent, and for a moment, John could hear every inch of air between him and Baker Street.

“Come home, John.”

The air hissed out of John’s lungs. “Yes. I – all right.”

Sherlock disconnected.

**

John walked up to 221B, concentrating on putting one foot before the other. He could hear Sherlock playing his violin, and the sound guided him up the stairs. His suitcase had nearly nothing in it, but felt terribly heavy. He pushed open the door.

Sherlock was facing the window as he played, and the fading sunlight of dusk surrounded his body like a nimbus. He was playing a song that John didn’t know the name of, but knew that it was one of his favourites. As the door creaked open, Sherlock turned to John without stopping playing.

“Welcome home, John,” he said.

The suitcase fell out of John’s suddenly nerveless hand. He stared at Sherlock, and instantly everything was clear, like dawn after days of rain.

 _He loves me,_ John thought. _Every single thing that he’s done, he’s done because he loves me._

And right behind that thought came another: _And I love him._

Stars crowded across his field of vision. Distantly a very practical voice rang out in his mind, saying, _You’re fainting. You ought to let Sherlock know you’re fainting._

But Sherlock was already there. He’d dropped his violin and bow into his chair and was supporting John as he slid slowly to the floor. The stars cleared enough for John to see Sherlock’s face, lined and dark with worry.

“John? John? What’s the matter?”

But John suddenly felt better than he had felt his whole life. “Oh God, Sherlock,” he said. “Sherlock. I love you. I didn’t know. I didn’t know but now I do. Oh God.”

He was shaking all over, full body shakes, and he was dimly aware that his eyes were wet. Sherlock was down on the floor with him now, his arms around John’s shoulders, one leg bent and cradling John’s body. He had never been so physically close to Sherlock before, and felt the warmth of Sherlock’s skin wash over him.

“Are you hurt? Are you ill? John, what-”

John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his hand; Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut and he stared at John in astonishment.

“Sherlock, you – oh God, I’m so sorry, I never – you love me, right? Don’t you?”

“What? What are you saying?”

John thought his body was going to shake him to pieces, but he leaned forward, just a little bit forward, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You love me, and I didn’t, I didn’t realize it, and-”

Sherlock was trembling now, as though he had caught it from John. His face was a riot of emotions – worry, fear, confusion – but not anger.

“John?”

“I didn’t know, I didn’t know how much I loved you until just now, oh God, Sherlock, please.”

He pulled Sherlock towards him and kissed him again, their shivering bodies pressing together. At first Sherlock’s mouth was lax with shock, then he slowly began to respond with shallow, unpracticed kisses. Sherlock was still shaking but John felt a calm wash over him. They broke apart with a sigh, and John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, a bit lost, uncertain; John had never heard him sound like that.

“S’alright now, Sherlock,” he said. He was suddenly so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. “I’m just – I’m really tired. I’m okay, just really, really tired.”

“All – all right.”

Sherlock helped him to stand, wrapping an arm around John’s waist and slinging John’s arm over his shoulders. Slowly they walked down the hall as though John were made of spun glass.

They stopped at the door of Sherlock’s room. The stairs to John’s old room were just another step beyond. John felt Sherlock hesitate, then turn into his room.

Sherlock gently let him down on the bed. As soon as John felt the soft sheets and pillows, his eyes grew even heavier. Distantly he could feel Sherlock taking off his shoes and socks. He smiled faintly at the thought that Sherlock knew, without John ever having told him, that he didn’t like to sleep with socks on. He felt the covers being pulled over him.

“Sleep, John.”

John cracked one eye open with difficulty, and reached for Sherlock’s hand.

“Stay with me? Please?”

Sherlock blinked, and said, “Of course, John.”

John closed his eyes again as he heard the rustle of Sherlock getting into bed with him. He was asleep before Sherlock had settled down at his side.

**

Sunlight was streaming into the room when John woke. He woke simply and calmly, without a gasp of fear from a nightmare or a twist of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He felt more rested than he had in ages… months, years.

He turned his head to the side, feeling the slippery cool of the expensive bed linens under his cheek. Sherlock was in the bed next to him, sitting up, looking at his phone. As soon as John turned his head, Sherlock put his phone down on the bedside table and turned his gaze to John.

John grinned up at him. “Hey.”

“Hello,” Sherlock said. John couldn’t quite read his face or his tone, and guessed that Sherlock was staying deliberately neutral.

“You stayed,” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “You asked me to.” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then said defensively, “I went to the loo.”

“That’s okay.”

“And I got my phone. You’ve been asleep a long time.”

“How long?”

Sherlock looked at his watch. “It’s quarter past nine. Eight hours forty two minutes.”

“More than I’ve had for a while,” John said as he stretched. “Guess I needed that.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, briefly. “Well. You’ve been under a great deal of stress.”

John stared up at him. Sherlock was giving him an out, an excuse to dismiss his words and actions of the night before. A chance to forget that they’d kissed, to forget what John had said.

“Yes, that’s true,” he said carefully. “I feel loads better now. Especially with you here.”

Sherlock glanced at him, then his eyes flicked back to the front. “I – I don’t understand.”

John pulled himself up to a sitting position, facing Sherlock. “I didn’t understand either,” he said softly. “Not until I came in last night and saw you. And I realized that I’ve been fooling myself the whole time with Mary… hell, for years. Forever. I saw you and I realized… how I felt.”

Sherlock said nothing, his lips pressing together.

John couldn’t hold back any more, and reached out to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I mean… I love you, Sherlock. I didn’t understand before, but now I’ve never been so sure. And you…”

John’s heart began to hammer in his chest, suddenly afraid of how much there was to lose.

“Do you, Sherlock? Do you love me?”

John hardly dared to breathe; waited, waited, watching Sherlock for any sign of emotion, of anger, denial.

“Yes.” It was barely stronger than a puff of air, but it was clear and unmistakeable.

“How long?” John realized he was whispering too, as though the full strength of his voice would shatter this moment.

Sherlock licked his lips. “The pool. At least – as soon as I saw the semtex, and I thought – I could lose you. Later I realized that it went back further than that, right to the beginning, but I didn’t realize until then.”

John’s head was shaking from side to side, as though he had no control over it. “You’ve done so much for me… Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes sharp and accusing. “Because it was always _women_ , John. A new one every week, it felt like. I didn’t think you’d want… and having even a part of you was better than nothing at all.”

John felt wetness gathering in the corners of his eyes. “I am so sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t… I didn’t know until… and it hit me like a wave, but oh my God Sherlock, I am so sure of myself now. I love you. I don’t know how I can make it up to you but I want to, God, I want to. Please.”

Sherlock was shaking his head as though waking up or saying no. “Don’t be… ridiculous, John. You’re just coming out of your marriage and… I’ve never… I’ve no…”

“My marriage was an absolute sham, Sherlock, you know that. I knew that but I thought I loved her. Now I see I didn’t, didn’t really, not anyone ever before. It was you, always you, all along.”

“I’ve never been with anyone, John!” Sherlock snapped. “You – all those women, and – I’ve never been in a relationship, and it would be _ridiculous_!”

John took a long, slow, shaky breath. He ran his hand down Sherlock’s arm to his hand, took it gently into his. Sherlock’s fingers were cold and trembling against John’s palm. “Well,” he said softly, “I’ve never been with a man. And I’ve never actually been with someone that I loved like I love you. So, can we… figure it out together?”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and vulnerable. John held Sherlock’s hand more firmly in his own, and reached with his other hand to cradle Sherlock’s cheek as he had the night before. He leaned closer, looking deep into those amazing, undefinable eyes. “Yeah? Please?”

Sherlock’s breath shuddered out as a sigh. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t understand, but… yes, John. I want that.”

John leaned in further and kissed him, slow and soft and gentle. Then he pulled Sherlock into his arms, and felt Sherlock’s arms curve around his waist. By unspoken mutual agreement, they fell back onto the bed. John rearranged their limbs until Sherlock’s head was resting on John’s shoulder and John’s hand was tangling in Sherlock’s hair.

They were quiet for a long time, letting their new reality sink in.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“When you say you’ve never been in a relationship, you mean…?”

“Yes.”

“Not even…?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“No one was interesting enough.” Sherlock twisted to look up at John, his mouth quirked up in a half smile that made John’s heart thump. “Do make the inference on your own.”

“I’m honoured.”

“You should be.”

“I am.”

They were quiet for a time. John thought he had never been so relaxed, happy. _How could I have mistaken this for anything but love,_ he thought. _How close I came to not having this at all._

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and low, not his usual sharp and demanding.

“Yes, love?”

John heard Sherlock swallow, and realized that Sherlock had probably never heard a term of endearment referring to him before. “Last night, I – that was my first… kiss.”

“I figured,” John said, smiling into Sherlock’s hair.

“It was very nice.”

“I’m glad.”

“I liked it. And a few minutes ago, I liked that too.”

“Good.”

“Can we…?”

John pulled Sherlock up to him. “You never have to ask, love.”

They kissed for what felt like hours, with John silently teaching Sherlock about using his lips and tongue to express himself, then finding his eyes rolling up into the back of his head as Sherlock learned absurdly fast. Soon Sherlock was boneless, half lying on top of John, and John was dizzy and breathless.

“John,” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips, “let me see you. Please.”

Sherlock’s hips tilted against John, and John felt the press of his erection on his thigh. “Yeah, come on,” he said, feeling his own cock cramping in his pants. The thought of being with a man sexually would have been unthinkable before, but now he wanted nothing more than to have all of Sherlock in front of him.

They both started to work on each other’s buttons. “This is… harder than I thought it would be,” Sherlock muttered as his long fingers plucked at John’s shirt.

“The placard is backwards from what I’m used to,” John said, feeling a giggle rising up from his stomach. “There.” He managed to get the first few buttons undone and pulled Sherlock’s shirt off over his head, then did the same to his own.

Sherlock stared at John’s shoulder wound, where the bullet had entered his body and changed his life utterly; John found his eyes flicking over the many scars over Sherlock’s torso: slashes, burns, and his own bullet scar.  He traced his fingers over the marks, and Sherlock shivered under his touch. Then both their hands were everywhere, and it felt better than anything John had ever experienced before.

Sherlock’s trousers were tented obscenely, and John gave into his curiosity and ran his hand over the hardness there. Sherlock gasped so hard he choked.

“God John please please please,” he whined.

John groaned, and reached for Sherlock’s zip. Sherlock went utterly still as John pulled his trousers and pants off. The ivory of Sherlock’s skin was flushed at his throat and creeping down his chest and up to his face. Every muscle was taut, and as John took Sherlock’s cock into his hand, Sherlock threw his head back and groaned. It was the first cock apart from his own John had touched; it felt a bit odd and he wasn’t quite sure how to do this for another man, but Sherlock was so responsive it was powerfully erotic for John.

John stroked him experimentally, and rubbed his thumb over the crown, and suddenly Sherlock was coming, spurting over John’s hand and his own belly.  His back arched, his hands and heels skittering against the sheets, and he cried out, deep and hoarse.

“Sorry – sorry,” Sherlock gasped as he shivered through the aftershocks.

“No, don’t – that was, my God Sherlock, that was amazing, you’re so amazing, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, and his body was still jerking spasmodically, but he reached blindly for John’s hips. “You… you… please, I want…”

John eagerly shucked his jeans as Sherlock pried his eyes open and turned on his side to face John. John was hard and dripping, and his skin felt like a wave of electricity was creeping over it. He closed his eyes as Sherlock’s hand wrapped around his cock. His hand was warm and wet, and John realized with a surge of arousal that Sherlock’s hand was still covered in his own semen.

“Tell me what to do,” Sherlock whispered in his ear.

“Tighter, just, oh God, that’s good, that’s brilliant.”

“So beautiful, John.”

John could already feel the orgasm gathering in the pit of his stomach. He reached out for Sherlock, his hands scrabbling over his face, his hair, his shoulder, his back.

He felt Sherlock’s lips at his ear, felt and heard him sigh. “I love you, John.”

And he was coming, his voice breaking in harsh shouts, his hand gripping at Sherlock’s shoulder. When he came back to himself, he was wrapped in Sherlock’s arms. His own arms felt like lead, but he got them around Sherlock and pulled him even closer.

“Sorry I was so quick,” Sherlock murmured.

“No, love. It was perfect,” John said. His eyes wandered all over Sherlock’s face, watched Sherlock studying him as well.

Sherlock grinned. “It was?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Is it always like that?”

John traced Sherlock’s mouth with his fingertip, feeling love wash over him. “No. It’s never been like this for me.”

“Because I’m a man.”

John could hear Sherlock’s self-consciousness, a sigh of insecurity despite everything that had just happened. Love welled up inside him, like a wave breaking over his head. For the first time in his life he was unafraid, and let himself sink into it, without regret or fear but with joy. The absolute truth rose up in his voice.

“No.” John kissed Sherlock, deep and heartfelt. “Because I love you.”

_End._


End file.
